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Nay, by thy knees, by every prayer,

We all invoke thee, oh forbear:

Thou shalt not slay thy sons: forbear.

And how then couldst thou ever find

Force in thy hand, thy heart, thy mind,

Against thy sons, thine own, to wreak

The dreadful vengeance thou dost seek?

And how, if but a moment long

Upon thy sons thy glance should wait,

Wilt thou indeed continue strong

And tearless to fulfil their fate?

It is not thine, not possibly,

When at thy feet the children cry

In their life-blood thy fell hand to dye.

Summoned, I come. For, though thou'rt rancourous,

Thou shalt not fail of this, but I will hear,

Lady, what new boon thou wouldst have of me.